


Day Two: Clinical Trials

by Uwansumadamboi



Series: Kinktober 2018 [2]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Era, Dehumanization, E-stim, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fucking Machines, I Don't Even Know, Kinktober, M/M, Medical Kink, Unethical Medicine, straitjacket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uwansumadamboi/pseuds/Uwansumadamboi
Summary: These days, Waylon avoided confrontation whenever it was possible and he wouldn’t risk upsetting Blaire by so much as breathing the wrong way – never mind screaming back at him like he so wanted to. All he received was a toothless glare and a soft slurring mutter of nonsense, a bit of drool pooling down his chin obscenely. “That’s good. That’s what I like to hear.” Blaire continued on as if what Waylon had said was something along the lines of, ‘I’m doing just fine, Mr. Blaire! Never been better!’“We’re going to be doing some therapy today-” Waylon’s eyes widened and he shook his head softly. He had already been through the Morphogenic Engine not two days ago – five meal times, three groups and two visits consisting of scientists manhandling him for who knows what reasons –  surely they wouldn’t already be taking him back for another round. “No, no, a different kind of therapy. Something experimental that I think you would be a perfect candidate for. Off the books, of course.” He explained.





	Day Two: Clinical Trials

**Author's Note:**

> This is real nasty i'm sorry :////////////
> 
> anyways, the prompt was medical play and thats a pretty vague play so i just threw a whole buncha crap in with it lmao

Waylon had come to terms with the fact that his life was basically over – at least until Lisa could get him out, he was little more than Murkoff’s dirty little secret and the occasional plaything of his former boss, Jeremy Blaire. He had no idea why the man still seemed so intent on torturing him. He had already won, Waylon was going to be dehumanized and experimented on for the rest of his hopefully short life – every day going forward until he was finally dead would be miserable for him. 

Why couldn’t he just leave him alone? Why did he keep touching him in a way that made him feel like his skin was crawling, why did he keep looking at him, why did he keep leering at him, why did he keep talking down to him like he was just some stupid little child that didn’t know any better – or like he was an animal, good for little more than being patronized and touched without his permission. 

He had assumed that he was going to be seeing Mr. Blaire again when two orderlies came into his cell and, very business like, hooked him into a straitjacket and forced a gag in his mouth that forced it wide open to the point of degradation and carted off to a small medical room – equipped with stirrups, surgery equipment and… just as he thought, Jeremy Blaire waiting for him with a disgustingly smug smile spread across his face like off brand butter on Artisan breads. Fake, uncanny and uncomfortable.

Blaire liked to pretend, at least for minutes at the beginning of his “visits” with Waylon, that he only had the best intentions at hand. The minute that Waylon showed even a sliver of resistance, he would start screaming at him, threatening his life and reminding him of his new place in the world. 

Waylon liked to avoid rocking the boat anymore than he already had. He leaned down to where Waylon sat, on the ground below him, “How are you doing, Mr. Park?” Blaire asked him, not at all expecting the younger man to answer him. Even if the gag shoved in his mouth didn’t make speaking an impossibility, he wouldn’t have expected Waylon to say a word. These days, Waylon avoided confrontation whenever it was possible and he wouldn’t risk upsetting Blaire by so much as breathing the wrong way – never mind screaming back at him like he so wanted to. 

All he received was a glare and a soft slurring mutter of nonsense, a bit of drool pooling down his chin obscenely. “That’s good. That’s what I like to hear.” Blaire continued on as if what Waylon had said was something along the lines of, ‘I’m doing just fine, Mr. Blaire! Never been better!’

“We’re going to be doing some therapy today-” Waylon’s eyes widened and he shook his head softly. He had already been through the Morphogenic Engine not two days ago – five meal times, three groups and two visits consisting of scientists manhandling him for who knows what reasons – surely they wouldn’t already be taking him back for another round. “No, no, a different kind of therapy. Something experimental that I think you would be a perfect candidate for. Off the books, of course.” He explained. 

Waylon was momentarily confused by this and he stared at Jeremy blankly, hoping that he might expound on what he meant – or even to just start screaming at him, tell him what a worthless piece of shit that he was. He was being too civil for Waylon’s taste and he wanted things to go back to “Normal”

“If you cooperate with me, I might let you have visitation privileges.” Blaire tells him, hands cupping his cheeks in such a way to force Waylon to look him in the eyes while he spoke. “Wouldn’t that be nice? You can go and see the wife and kids for an hour every week. That’s not a privilege anyone else has, I’m offering you special treatment here.” His tone started to fray with venom, “If I were you, I would say ‘yes’ to this, Park.”

He wanted to see Lisa again – that was true enough, but it wasn’t for himself. He needed to see her, so that he could tell her to move on. It just wasn’t fair to her that she would have to wait for him, never seeing to him, never knowing if he was safe or being cared for. It wasn’t fair to his boys either, they didn’t need to grow up thinking that their father was a crazy person, left alone with just their mother to raise them alone. It was best for everyone that they just forgot about him. 

And besides, he was almost entirely sure that if he refused that Blaire would just force him. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had and he already had Waylon in a straitjacket as if he was – as if he had ever been, ever in his life – a danger to have unrestrained.

Despite his own worries, he knew that he had little more choice than to nod. “Good, good.” Blaire said gesturing towards an orderly, a young man who looked a little nervous about what might happen if he did his job wrong. Waylon empathized with him, he had been in that same exact position not just weeks earlier. “Strap him down to the stretcher.”

He didn’t even pretend to try and put up a fight as he was hoisted to his feel and dragged off to a lightly padded hospital bed. He was forced down onto it, leather belts looped over his already bound chest and hips before the orderly grabbed his bare legs and forced them up and apart into the stirrups so that his ass was a couple of inches elevated off of the padding.

The belts were cold and rough, the fraying of the leather dug into his skin so that he wouldn’t be able to get even slightly comfortable while he was bound and strapped down. Jeremy Blaire sat down, perching himself on one of the metal tables right in Waylon’s line of sight so that Waylon would be practically forced to look at him while the doctors did what they wanted with him.

The first thing that they did was hook wires to his head, chest and thighs, like he was taking an EKG or going through a round or two of neuro-therapy. That didn’t bother him all that much, he had been through enough medical procedures that this was not unfamiliar territory to him. At least not yet. 

A doctor poised at Waylon’s side, a woman with dirty blond hair and a soft lilting voice that did no justice to the cold-hearted profession that she was in. If Waylon saw her on the street, he would have assumed her to be a very kind, very nice type of person. “Are we ready to start the procedure yet?”

Blaire grunted affirmatively, “Get him ready first.” He ordered, one of the orderlies came over to him quickly and unsnapped the straps that covered his genitals. He let out an alarmed noise, eliciting laughter out of the other man. “Calm down Park, this is strictly professional. It’s all a part of the therapy.” he assured, falsely soothing. Waylon glared at him, but stopped rustling around with the reminder that he was doing this for Lisa – Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, he kept reminding himself. He repeated her name over and over again like a mantra. Like he could achieve nirvana if he kept her memory alive.

The whole thing was incredibly uncomfortable – the frigid air hit his cock, swelling beyond his own want or control. Suddenly, a slicked up, gloved finger started to probe at his hole. Stretching out his entrance with a clinical, detached precision to it. He felt nothing, other than a slight burn at being stretched open and no one said a word, not even Jeremy as he watched – no mocking, no reminding him of his place, reminding him of the consequences of his actions, of his morality. Nothing.

He didn’t even want to think about why they needed to prepare him in this sort of way, but he was pretty sure that he had a good idea of what. Once his entrance was stretched to their suitability, one of them carted over a heavy machine that he could only describe as a glorified fucking machine towards him. 

He let out a noise full of surprise mixed with slight pain as the tip of the medicalized dildo entered him. It was cold and slick made purely of metal. He was just thankful, at least for his own pride, that his erection had flagged. He had no wish to take any sexual pleasure from this, he wanted to experience this like the job that he was so sure that it was supposed to be – despite the pornographic nature of the experimental therapy that he was being coerced into receiving.

“Start the machine.” Blaire snapped, as soon as it was inside of him. A ticking sound went off and the shaft thrust forward, moving slow enough to be agonizing – inch by inch – until the entire shaft was filling him, leaving him with a slightly uncomfortable feeling of fullness. 

It thrust back and forth inside of him, occasionally pulling out far enough so that only the tip was inside of him before it quickly forced it’s way deep inside of him. Waylon was to overwhelmed to really hear himself or much in the room around him but he was sure that he was screaming and shouting his protests as cohesively as the gag in his mouth would allow him. 

They let him cry himself out, ignoring him in favor of getting more accurate results. They said a few words every now and then, mainly technical or medical jargon – commenting on the spikes in his brain waves, reactions to internalized and externalized stimuli and a few other things that he didn’t really understand or particularly care to understand.

“Sir, would you like us to commence with the second phase?” The soft spoken doctor asked and then when Blaire voiced his approval – with the order to start off low, somewhere around twenty or thirty volts. The metallic shaft nestled inside of him, stopping entirely for a moment while electricity flowed through him. 

He thrashed around, confused and startled by the sensation. It didn’t hurt… not necessarily, but it didn’t really feel good to him either. It felt like a lot. Too much. Despite the fact that he felt very little pleasure from the stimulation, his body did and – to his own shame – he came hard, his cum spurting over the table and onto himself with a litany of sobs. The only person to say a word about it in either a positive or a negative light was one of the orderlies off to the side,“That’s an interesting reaction.” He said.

The fucking machine slowed to a stop and he whimpered in relief. Blaire laughed at him,“Don’t get so excited just yet, Park, we’re not done with you yet.” He clapped his hands together, walking towards him for a moment. “Maybe you’ll get a few more orgasms,” he mocked, “You looked like you enjoyed yourself quite a bit, you looked like a fucking porn star. No, that’s too nice. You looked like a whore.”

He stretched the word ‘whore’ out, emphasizing on the importance of it like it was Waylon’s new identity – or a diagnosis. He could imagine his file being reworked and edited like that – with a scarlet letter on top that said: “Waylon Park – M – 32- Involuntary admit – Primary Diagnosis: Whore”

Apparently the next therapy that he was apparently supposed to be put under was an IV being introduced into his system. He had no idea what it was, but it left him with a hazy and fuzzy feeling. It felt good – too good, too nice. 

Against his own wishes, his cock began too swell once again, so short after he came the first time. He squirmed a little, as much as he could within the confines of his bonds before the fucking machine started up again, thrusting slowly but harshly.

He whined high in his throat, the pleasure he felt bordered right at the knifes edge between pleasure and pain, culminating into a feeling of pins and needles crawling all over his skin until he was pushed forward into yet another orgasm. It didn’t even feel good to him, it hurt. It hurt so much. 

The drug left his system incredibly fast after his orgasm, causing him to crash hard. His head lolled to the side in his exhaustion. He would have hoped that this would be the end of this experiment but they were not done with him just yet, not by a long shot, when the fucking machine started the process all over again. They alternated with the separate, therapies seemingly at random – so that he could never get used to one kind of therapy or another for very long.

He was sure that he must have been hooked up to the machine for hours if not days, the time dragged on so long for him – constantly being fucked into and having his insides shocked while being drugged and stimulated cruelly by the glorified fucking machine had taken a toll on his body and mind and he lay there limp as a rag doll until it finally – finally – slowed down to a halt.

He looked around the space, it took a lot of effort for him to notice anything. The room was desolate, no one was in their as far as he could see until he noticed that Blaire coming towards him with his own erect cock in hand – Waylon’s mouth was forced wide open so he was helpless to do little more than take whatever abuses his former boss decided to inflict upon him.

Blaire positioned himself so that the head of his cock was aimed at Waylon’s mouth as he stroked it leisurely, occasionally thrusting inside of his mouth as he did so. He forced the younger mans’ head still as he came, marking his cheeks, nose and eyes with ribbons of cum.

Jeremy put his spent cock back in the confines of his pants, being very business like about it. “Well this has been…” he paused so he could smear a bit of his cum into Waylon’s skin, degrading the whistle blower a little more. “A revealing trial run. According to the doctors, you gave a lot of clear preliminary results.” He smiled grimly, “You’re a test good subject, Park. You’re finally useful for something, isn’t that nice?”

His eyes widened, confused. ‘trial run?’ he thought with bewilderment – he hadn’t expected this to happen to him more than once. He had hoped that it would never happen again, that the older man would leave him alone, stop harassing him. 

“Of course we’ll have to do a few more of these therapies,” He continued, speaking in an even yet smug tone. “If you keep cooperating as well as you did today, hopefully even better than today, 

Waylon closed his eyes, not bothering to move or to react. He should have expected this – he really should have been used to Blaire’s insidious, greedy and innately corporate nature. Of course he wouldn’t just do this to him once – he had been stupid to think that this would go down any other way.

Still, he had no other options. Blaire held all the cards here and, if he wanted a chance to see his wife and kids ever again – no matter how small the chance was – he had to cooperate again. And again. And again. Until Blaire finally tired of the novelty of torturing him and left him alone once and for all.


End file.
